


Dare I Say Forever

by TravelingSong



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And every other interaction they've ever had? It's more likely than you think!, Aziraphale?, Daydreaming about being pushed against a wall by Crowley?, M/M, a soft fic, first there's pining and then more pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 07:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20111365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: “You’re going to make me spell it out for you?”“Oh absolutely, angel. Absolutely.”“There’s really not much more to it. I called you nice and you…pushed me against the wall. Our noses touched briefly, but that’s besides the point really, that’s—““And you think about that often? Me pushing you against a wall and our noses touching?”





	Dare I Say Forever

It starts with a book. 

Well.

_Books_, to be exact. Plural. 

Another stack that requires sorting and categorizing and safety from inquiring customers, nothing out of the usual, except that suddenly his mind travels back to 1941. And a church. And a bomb. 

And a demon that had handed him a bag of literary works like it’s nothing, like he hadn’t just made the angels heart soar, like he hadn’t just caused a seismic shift in the universe. _Little demonic miracle of my own_. How dare he. _Lift home? _

Aziraphale had gratefully accepted the invitation at the time, Crowley’s driving style notwithstanding, and had been clutching the bag like a lifeline all the way back. It had been radiating. And the angel had been amazed. 

A demon’s love. Palpable. Glowing. 

“What are you smiling about, angel?“ Crowley had asked. 

And Aziraphale had lied.

“Just excited to get home, dear boy.“

* * *

The thing is, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t need it, he doesn’t much care for it. The concept of staying unconscious for hours makes him anxious. He thinks it’s mostly a waste of time. 

No, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. He _daydreams_. 

Tempting smiles, monumental events, bench conversations, drunken philosophizing, a quick miracle. 6,000 years worth of memories. 6,000 years worth of thinking about a certain demon.

He mostly indulges in the happy moments, his collection of favorites. Watching Shakespeare construct another play together, for instance, or their culinary adventures in Rome, or Crowley falling asleep on his couch, or crêpes, or their hands brushing when he had handed him the flask filled of Holy Water.

(For the record, that particular Holy Water memory is, of course, not a happy moment by default. Their fingers touching, however, well…)

Only sporadically, he thinks of their more painful interactions, their fights and long absences and Alpha Centauri and the image of a grieving Crowley in a bar. Something like penance. Something to remind him that their agreement, no, that seems too trivial a term now, their _relationship_ is a fragile thing, even after all this time. 

And sometimes, yes.

Sometimes he catches himself thinking about a specific wall. 

Well, that’s not quite true. 

_Frequently_, he catches himself thinking about a specific wall and the way Crowley had pushed him against it, _I’m not nice _and all that, and how he had stopped listening rather quickly because their faces had been so close and how in the world could Crowley have expected him to concentrate with their faces, no, their bodies _so close_, really, that’s a laughable thought. Aziraphale had been much too busy staring and imagining and scheming. 

Scheming to find another remark that would elicit this kind of reaction out of the demon. 

_Oh_, Aziraphale had thought at the time when realization dawned on him. _Oh_, he thinks now as his thoughts trail off and find that specific memory again. 

_Oh, I am in so much trouble. _

* * *

_Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel._

_Angel._

“Angel!“

He flinches at the sudden noise, sees Crowley staring at him with an irritated expression from his usual spot in Aziraphale’s armchair. 

“What?“

“I’ve been calling your name three times and nothing.“

“I apologize, I must have—“

“Where did you go just now?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been doing that thing again.”

“That thing?”

“Yeah. It’s like you…I don’t know, drift off?“

“And what do you mean, _again_?“

“You’ve been having these intervals recently where you just seem to be somewhere else. In your head, I mean. If I bore you, I could—“

“No, no, it’s not that. I’m not sure what it is exactly. But I apologize for being rude.“

“You sure you’re alright?“

_“_Quite alright, yes.“ _Except you’re on my mind, constantly._

"Should we grab some lunch then?“

“The Ritz?“

“Whatever you like, angel.“

* * *

Aziraphale thinks there’s no time like the present.

Aziraphale thinks he needs to get this daydreaming business under control and stop being a coward and face his feelings.

Aziraphale thinks the demon looked absolutely _adorable_ when the angel complained about the color stain on his coat and Crowley did that little pout and then proceeded to miracle it away and looked at him knowingly and…

_Dammit._

* * *

It’s an evening like any other, the bookstore and some drinks and two immortal entities following their favorite pastimes, reading for one and lounging for the other, and there’s nothing particularly notable about any of this, except that the angel is stealing glances and that the demon is quite aware.

“What is it, angel?” Crowley asks after catching Aziraphale watching him for the thirteenth time that night.

(Yes, he counted.)

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not sure how to start,” he admits.

“At the beginning. That’s usually a good place to start.”

Aziraphale purses his lips and Crowley smirks.

“Well, it’s a sensitive issue.”

“Face your fears, Aziraphale. Be brave. Spit it out.”

_Brave_. He makes it sound easy. 

“I’m not brave.”

“Of course you are.“

“I don’t feel brave.“

Crowley looks at him with an offended expression. It’s something Aziraphale has watched him do many times on his behalf. Whenever he had been too hard on himself, had doubted his choices, had drifted into the darkened pits of self-deprecation, Crowley had been there to set him straight. _I don’t think you can do the wrong thing_. It was one of his specialties. Much like getting the angel out of rather undesirable predicaments. 

“You’re an angel and went to Hell,” he tells Aziraphale. “What’s not brave about that?“

“You went to Heaven.“

"You gave away your flaming sword.“

“You walked into a burning bookshop to look for me.“ _To save me._

_“_I’m used to the heat. Was nothing, really.“

"You could have been discorporated.“

“Yeah, well.“

“So we’re both reckless.“

“Or both brave.“ His look is sincere now, something that takes Aziraphale’s proverbial breath away. “Seriously, angel. You _are_ brave. And good. And a bit of a bastard.“

“That was—“

“Don’t say nice.“

“—kind of you.“

He gives him that particular look, feigned indignation mixed with a spark of gratitude. Aziraphale thinks about a specific wall again.

“Four-letter word,“ Crowley mumbles.

“Just the same.”

“So go ahead then, angel. Be brave.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, lets the words leave the tip of his tongue. 

“I think about you.”

“What?”

“I think about you. All the time, in fact.”

“I’m not following.”

This isn’t going as well as he had hoped. He tries again.

“I daydream about you. About us.”

Crowley looks unfazed and Aziraphale feels oddly exposed now. For what feels like an eternity but is, in fact, only a minute, both remain silent.

“About what in particular?” Crowley says finally. 

“Just about anything from the last 6000 years.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And about what the most?”

“Well—“ _Be brave_, he reminds himself. “The old hospital.”

“The hospital? When I miracled that stain away?”

“Yes. Well, actually no. Not exactly.”

“Go on, then.”

“You’re going to make me spell it out for you?”

“Oh absolutely, angel. Absolutely.”

_Demon_, Aziraphale thinks. He sighs.

“There’s really not much more to it. I called you nice and you…pushed me against the wall. Our noses touched briefly, but that’s besides the point really, that’s—“

“And you think about that often? Me pushing you against a wall and our noses touching?”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s what those intervals are? When you drift off?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” 

And that’s that.

Aziraphale feels a strong urge to leave. Or discorporate. Whichever’s quicker. Instead, he gets up to pour himself another drink, a distraction more than anything, and walks over to the counter. 

Slowly, he picks up the bottle and fills his glass to the brim and almost spills every last drop of it when he turns around and Crowley is _right there_. 

“No need for that, angel,” he says and makes the glass vanish from Aziraphale’s hand. It reappears on the other end of the counter, fully intact. “So how did they start? These daydreams?”

“Crowley, there’s really no point in—“

“Come on.”

“I thought about you saving my books in 1941 and apparently developed a certain propensity for reminiscing.” Propensity was putting it mildly, if Aziraphale was being fully honest with himself, but _obsession_ had such a manic, not-at-all-angel-like ring to it.

Crowley doesn’t move. Or back off. Quite the opposite.

“I’m quite evil, you know.”

Aziraphale takes a step back as Crowley advances. 

“Course you are. Malicious.”

And another. 

“Could ruin my whole reputation, you just gushing about all these _nice_ things I’ve done.”

Until suddenly, the angel’s back is pushed against the wall. And Crowley leans closer. And their noses _almost _touch. And Aziraphale glances at the demon’s lips. 

How tempting.

“I don’t think I was gushing, necessarily,” he explains. “It’s really more of a—“

And then Crowley kisses him.

* * *

No, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t daydream anymore, either.

He just keeps Crowley company. Not so different, really, to whatever kind of arrangement they had before, but undeniably improved. More honest. Pleasant. Comforting. 

And more closeness, of course. There’s that too. He stays with Crowley when he sleeps, runs his fingers through his hair, lets his hand linger. Kisses the top of his head. And kissing Crowley, well, that’s a whole other issue. That’s something quite lovely and surprisingly soft and thrilling and tempting. 

“You know,” Aziraphale says when the demon begins to stir, “I don’t think we’ll be needing Alpha Centauri any time soon.” _Or ever._

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think right here will be just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom but these characters wouldn't leave me alone and now here we are. If you enjoyed this, do let me know. Thank you for reading.


End file.
